


Reciprocation (Part 2: As He Wants Him To Be)

by patternofdefiance



Series: I Blame Tumblr [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, BUT this may as well be titled:, First Kiss, First Time, I know I promised fluff, In Which Sex Is No Substitute for Clear Communication Surprise Surprise, John finally gets his shit together, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Minor panic attack, Sherlock is emotionally vulnerable and would realize that if he had the emotional vocab for it, in that it ends happily and there is much lovin', instead it is an Angstidote, mention of long ago drug use, post S3: a sort of fix-it, this was supposed to be a Fluffocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 17:44:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1696931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patternofdefiance/pseuds/patternofdefiance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's time alone turns as often to thoughts purely of John as it does to experiments and Mind Palace maintenance. Sometimes, Sherlock will catch himself thinking of spending more simple hours together, craving the quiet sounds and soothing rhythms of lives lived in sync – because they are good at this, at orbiting one another, inhabiting the same space, breathing the same air, living the same life. Sharing it.</p><p>He wonders what it would be like to extend the shared portion of their days to include the earliest parts of morning, the latest parts of night, the first and last sleepy blinks of sight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reciprocation (Part 2: As He Wants Him To Be)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [consulting_smartass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_smartass/gifts).



> This was supposed to be a quick and fluffy addition to the rather angsty As He Wants Him To Be...  
> Instead it somehow morphed into a post series 3 fix-it-ish thing, and...yeah.  
> Which means it is not as fluffy as I promised, but it did allow me to coin a new term: angstidote.  
> That's what this is.
> 
> Apologies.  
> (At least there's lots of sex.)
> 
> This is not beta'd or brit-picked, because reasons (reasons being: this was meant to be a QUICK thing, dammit!) - if you see grievous issues, please let me know <3

The East Wind blows, and there aren’t many left unruffled.

In its wake, it leaves a path of what most call destruction, but then most people are over-dramatic and romanticize hyperbole. It is far more accurate to call it ‘change,’ and that’s how Sherlock chooses to think of it anyway. (Thinking, is after all, a choice, and one so few people choose, and that’s the bitter rub of life. If the world really were full of goldfish, it would be forgivable, but instead it’s full of people pretending or wishing to be – _choosing to be_ – goldfish. God, how tedious.)

It is, of course, comforting that the axiom ‘the more things change, the more they stay the same’ proves to be true, and in three key ways:

  1.        John is, once more, completely unattached. God speed, A.G.R.A, and don’t let the international backlash hit you on the way out.
  2.        John is, once more, living at 221B, the room upstairs bigger and brighter, no longer a hollow pock of (ir)relevant space.
  3.        John is, once more, spending time with Sherlock – at crime scenes, at meetings with clients, but most importantly at home: in afternoons and evenings; sleepy, hesitant mornings and adrenaline-fueled late nights.



If John is spending his time with Sherlock, then surely it is safe to admit that Sherlock is spending his time with John. He only has to invite John to two crime scenes before the good doctor begins tagging along without prompting, clearing his schedule and assuming his place beside Sherlock, crouching beside cadavers, conferring in quiet tones the likely causes of death.

 _He missed this_ , Sherlock doesn’t allow himself to think (often), and he doesn’t need to follow it with, _I missed this_ , because stating the obvious is a waste of time, time better spent with John. And time _is_ better spent with John, so much so that even when John is gone (to Tesco’s, to work, to the pub), Sherlock yet again continues to talk with him as if he were present, running theories and extrapolations by him, running through various scenarios and outcomes with him…

These are not always Work-related.

His time alone turns as often to thoughts purely of John as it does to experiments and Mind Palace maintenance. Sometimes, Sherlock will catch himself thinking of spending more simple hours together, craving the quiet sounds and soothing rhythms of lives lived in sync – because they are good at this, at orbiting one another, inhabiting the same space, breathing the same air, living the same life. Sharing it.

Sherlock wonders what it would be like to extend the shared portion of their days to include the earliest parts of morning, the latest parts of night, the first and last sleepy blinks of sight.

Time for thoughts like these, however, is rare and growing rarer; John seems to hover about more, work less, and doesn’t linger at pubs on the odd night out with Lestrade or Stamford. He doesn’t pull at those pubs either (not that Sherlock can see) and that’s fine, or it would be fine, but for the waiting waiting _waiting_ for John to come home with that small, smug smile, the self-satisfied look that says he’s slipping away again, date by date, girlfriend by girlfriend.

It’s on one such night when John is away that Sherlock decides to spend the rare treat and torture of time alone on the couch, not smoking, not playing his violin, not distracting himself from the existence and absence of John Watson.

Instead he gives into that constant urge to let his thoughts drift and touch and taste. It’s a well-known path for his thoughts to tread; it is simple, almost easy, here in the flat, familiar territory coupled with ample opportunity: mornings together, afternoons together, evenings together; dining together, returning from cases, tending each other’s (not-so-minor) wounds… So many chances for hands to brush, eyes to linger, fire to spark.

He thinks of sharing laughter and adrenaline and heady success, their breaths huffing into shared space, turning to look at one another – and on so many nights, this has been enough for the fantasy to unfold (hands reaching, mouths meeting, culmination, climax).

But tonight the thoughts won’t settle in, won’t slink along their well-worn channels. Sherlock knows why, too, even if it’s the sort of knowledge he only glances at from the corner of his mind. He knows John didn’t accept an invitation from Lestrade or Stamford to meet up at a pub. Sherlock knows John didn’t go with colleagues from work or old army or footy mates. Sherlock knows John went alone, and if that doesn’t signify a serious intent, then Sherlock will give Bart’s back ~~their~~ his microscope.

He knows John won’t come home tonight. Instead he’ll pull at some loud, crowded pub, chat and charm, so easy for him face to face (John may be lost in a crowd to a lesser eye, but one-on-one his technique is formidable) and then some faceless, nameless woman will invite him home for some friction and sweat and smeared cosmetics. John will be home early in the morning to shower before work, exhausted but with a spring in his step.

This thought has Sherlock measuring the glooming night out in solitary breaths, the quiet pressing close even as the world feels distant in ways he’d never thought possible. It scatters his intentions, and no matter how he arranges his thoughts, tonight he cannot climb into his mind.

Still, he keeps trying and trying, exhausting himself in the process, until all that remains is a bone deep fatigue, a breath deep weariness that rings hollow like resignation.

 

Sherlock doesn’t know when his restless thoughts blurred and blended into equally restless sleep, full of fits and starts of dreams half-dreamt, but when he comes (mostly) awake again, it’s still dark – or perhaps it’s dark _again_? – because those are John’s footsteps, and surely he wouldn’t be back so early?

“John?” his mouth asks before he can quite catch it.

John pauses on the landing – and yes, even with sleep-dulled eyes, Sherlock can see the signs of an evening spent at the local pub on jacket sleeves and shirt cuffs, hands and under-eyes. It must still be the same night – and before midnight, too – but then why –

“Why are you back?” Sherlock asks, and oh god, he actually said that out loud. Apparently he’s not quite out from under the effects of the disorienting nap.

John frowns and enters the room, hesitantly. “I…live here?” he answer-asks, as if that explains anything.

Sherlock snorts. “Didn’t think you’d come back.” He means to add _not tonight, anyway_ , but that addendum catches in his throat, and ripping it loose might dislodge other things, and _no, not like this, not now_.

“…Sherlock, I’m always going to come back.”

“Not always.” Fuck. _Shut up, shut up._ Sherlock closes his eyes. Opens them.

John is somehow closer, crouching by the sofa, concern and confusion colouring his face a familiar shade of caring. “Sherlock?” A question, (never an offer). “Why wouldn’t I come back?”

Sherlock can feel his mouth, full of words, open to answer – because refusing John _before_ was difficult; refusing him these days is _unthinkable_. Sherlock’s mouth is full of words, right now, dangerous ones, and in an effort to keep those from slipping out he shoves out others; and so because deductions are safer than declarations, he says:

“The question isn’t why you wouldn’t, it’s why you _did_. You spoke to two different women tonight, perhaps three, and one at least was rather amenable to sharing more than a drink. The blonde, I’d say, judging by the long hair tucked at your collar. So. Why aren’t you there. Why aren’t you at her place. Why are you –” Sherlock swallows the rest of his words as he finally notices John’s face, caught between bemusement at the deduction and a sort of trapped, exposed expression.

“Um,” John says, and Sherlock notices that John is less crouching and more kneeling close by his side, his expression less panicked and more decisive, and maybe the night out had been less about pulling and more about thinking, because John’s breath smells of whiskey (which he takes neat, two fingers, nurses it forever, when he wants introspection) and not of beer (the darker bitters that he drinks when he wants to imbibe without getting drunk or breaking the bank, when he wants a good time). “Um,” John says, and kisses him.

Sherlock’s body helpfully freezes, and his mouth falls open around a startled “John?” as his heart clutches and thrashes frenetically.

“You’re surprised?” John asks, pulling back. “I thought…I thought it was obvious? I was obvious? Oh god – ” John shifts back to sit on his heels. “Oh god, Sherlock, I’m so sorr–”

“You -?” Sherlock asks, and he doesn’t know when his hand took it upon itself to move, but now it’s gripping John’s jacket, curling into his lapel, and Sherlock kisses John this time, and it takes a moment before that sinks in, the realization that he’s kissing John, those lips still damp from when they pushed against his first.

John makes a soft noise against Sherlock’s mouth, eyelids fluttering shut, breath stuttering out against his lips and cheeks, and Sherlock can’t help the groan that slips from him.

John pulls back, breathless, and asks, “Is this alright? Sherlock?” and Sherlock pants against the tightness in his chest, because for once it’s not just a question, but an offer, and –

“Yes,” he answers, “ _yes_ ,” he accepts, and then John is kissing him, kissing him, kissing him.

“We –” John begins, and Sherlock is leaning forward, now, almost sitting, one slip away from sprawling onto the carpet and John, “We should – we could – oh god, Sherlock, please let’s get to a bed –”

 _Yes_ , Sherlock’s body thrums even as he thinks, _No,_ because what if the walls are pale blue, what if it’s (not)Christmas, what if there’s sunlight on the bed, scattered by fancy? Sherlock desperately doesn’t want sunlight on the bed, this time.

“Sherlock?” John asks, pulls back, and then says: “Hey,” softly. “We don’t have to –”

“No,” Sherlock cuts in. “Please.” He closes his eyes, waits –

And looks up as John pulls him to his feet, into a kiss, those fastidious lips pulling the remnants of ‘please’ from Sherlock’s mouth. It’s irrationally easier to breathe closer to John, his hand gripping Sherlock’s, and Sherlock just indulges in that, the simple act of respiration, made brilliant by specific proximity.

After a minute, John leads the way to Sherlock’s bedroom, and Sherlock’s mind stutters though the logistics of that selection:

  *          pros: room is closer, bed is larger, less textures and smells to demand categorization, less distractions from John;
  *          cons: the bed won’t smell like John, won’t be shaped to John’s body, the room is situated closer to Mrs. Hudson, and yet somehow more intimate (Sherlock’s walls, Sherlock’s sheets, Sherlock’s _bed_ ), more vulnerable, and what if – if –



John opens the door, and for a moment Sherlock feels the floor tilt beneath his feet, because yellow squares are spread upon his bed like daylight made fantasy made _obscene_ – but it’s only the light from the streetlights outside his window, and Sherlock can’t stop the sound that chokes its way out of him, half laugh and half something much harder to bear, and then John has him pressed against the bed, is pressed against his lips, and Sherlock lets the sound out again, and he’d call it a keen if he’s being kind.

“Please,” John whispers back, handing the word over in a kiss.

Sherlock’s knees part, his legs open, and then John is lying flush against him, hips to lips, hands clutching and crushing where they land. It’s close enough to pain that Sherlock makes a shocked noise, but it’s not nearly close enough to _enough_. “John,” he says, but it emerges as a groan, raw and raked around the edges with want.

“Oh god, _Sherlock_ –” John moans, and the sound of it shivers its way through Sherlock’s body, a tangible adularescence, better than he ever imagined it could be. The sound of it is light, filling him, and he finds the more light pours in, the more he can take, the more he wants to be filled to the brim. “Can we?” John is asking, muttering, “can we?” and his hands finish the question, no longer grasping and gripping but plucking at Sherlock’s robe and shirt.

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock answers, shimmies and lifts his hips, trying to make this easy even as his eagerness gets in the way.

John’s hands are steady, though, but for little tremors, as they take hold of sleep-bottoms and pants and push them down. Sherlock shivers as he’s exposed, feeling fevered, and then John is rucking up Sherlock’s shirt as well, and there’s a brief moment of thrashing disorientation, and then he’s naked.

Above him, John stills, eyes blown dark despite the light pouring in through the windows, and oh god, Sherlock never thought to imagine that John could look like this, look at _him_ like this, soft and hard, shocked and smug, wanting and aching.

“Sherlock –” he says and trails his fingers down Sherlock’s right cheekbone and jaw, of all the places he could touch.

Sherlock’s eyes flutter, and he fights them closing, says through harsh breaths: “You’re still dressed.”

John’s whole face warms as he smiles, and his head tilts a bit, as if a lopsided smile can unbalance it, this moment, everything. He swoops down and kisses Sherlock, and god this shouldn’t still come as a surprise, this kind of contact falls well within expected parameters for sexual interaction, and yet – John’s lips, firm and insistent and slightly chapped and incredibly warm and moist and softer inside, John’s lips come as a surprise with each new touch, with each press and slide and taste. Each kiss is a revelation.

John’s bare chest against his is a shock, startling Sherlock’s hands into motion. They help push fabric from muscled shoulders, thumbs stroking over collar bones, and fingernails scraping down triceps and scapula, and John shivers against him, which is better than anything Sherlock could have conjured himself. John’s breath comes in little quivery gasps, too, and then their hands are jostling each other as John struggles with his belt and Sherlock tackles his zip, and Sherlock shouldn’t have glossed over this part in his daydreams, should have practiced this, _this is going on too long_ , and maybe this is the stumbling block where _John will come to his sense and stop_ –

John pulls his belt from the loops with a victorious laugh, and Sherlock’s fingers manage the top button, and John pulls the zipper down, and they both push, John’s legs and feet coming into play, and then he is naked, and laying his weight back down against Sherlock, and then his lips again, washing Sherlock in sensation, in stimulus, in _never enough_ but close enough for now, for now, _for now._

Or not.

“John,” Sherlock gasps, and he meant to say ‘please,’ so it comes out sounding a bit garbled and strange, and John isn’t a figment of his desperate yearning, (not this time), so he stops, confused, and that isn’t what Sherlock wanted at all, but it’s so delightfully real that he closes his eyes and breathes, breathes John and this moment of tangible actuality in.

“What?” John asks softly. “Tell me what you want.”

It takes Sherlock a moment to compose himself. “I –”

“Anything,” John whispers. “Anything, anything.”

“I want everything. John,” and Sherlock feels a thrill, electric, at saying John’s name like this, at the beginning of a request for intimate contact, out loud where it might affect the outcome of real events, “touch me, please, just –”

John doesn’t hesitate, only asks “Like this?” and then his hand is warm and soft and sweat damp around Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock is woefully unprepared for the reality of being held by John Watson. The first stroke is slow, so slow, and then the second a little faster, and the third sure and steady and Sherlock arches and cries out, voice creaking high and catching on a gasp, on the first half of John’s name, and then John is kissing him – perhaps to silence those sounds? – but then he pulls back a fraction and says, “Again,” and keeps working Sherlock’s cock, saying, “again, Sherlock, let me hear you, god, _please_.”

As if Sherlock could refuse John now.

His voice keens out of him in thin ribbons and tattered gasps, a tapestry of sounds unravelling with each touch from John’s hand and fingers and lips and –

“More,” Sherlock croaks, “oh god John, more please, I want –”

“Tell me,” John urges, mouth smearing kisses against Sherlock’s chest and neck, “tell me.”

“I – closer, I want you closer, please – I – want you, want you inside –” Sherlock manages, throat tightening with each word until the last is choked out through a stranglehold of nerves, because if John says _no_ now –

“Oh god yes,” John breathes, “oh god, if you’re sure?”

In answer and evidence, Sherlock untangles himself, rolls over, reaches, opens the bedside table drawer, and pulls what he needs from it. The whole maneuver takes less than three seconds. John is almost laughing when Sherlock slaps the bottle of lubricant into his palm, but he sobers up almost immediately. Sherlock expects him to make a crack about being ‘eager,’ but John’s eyes and lips and hands and cock – oh _god_ – are singing a similar song in harmony.

“Condom?” he asks, and Sherlock shakes his head, not trusting himself to speak. He’s clean, John’s clean, these are known facts. A slightly less rational consideration is that Sherlock wants, desperately, to carry John inside him, and this – this will do. For now. ( _ ~~Later, though~~_ ~~… Don’t think about later. Don’t think about _later_.~~ _Don’t_.)

John bites his lip, then nods. “If you’re sure.”

“Yes.”

John’s finger is slick and cool against his perineum, warming as it slides lower, insistent as it begins to press tiny circles against the whorl of Sherlock’s anus, and Sherlock’s done this much to himself, but the absence of efferent copy means every little nuance is new and unexpected, his nervous system struggling to anticipate and failing, falling into reaction after reaction, little cries and twitches, his legs tensing, his hips jerking.

“Sherlock,” John says, trying to soothe with one hand even as he undoes with the other. “Sherlock,” he breathes against his belly, and his breath wrapped around Sherlock’s name is moist and warm, and then his mouth trails kisses down as he murmurs, “Relax, I need you to –” and then his mouth is hot and wet wrapped around Sherlock’s cock, until he pops off, “– _let go_ ,” and with that he stops talking, mouthing at Sherlock’s cock as his finger prods and pushes rhythmically.

The twinned sensations of hot suction and slick pressure are almost too much, a jumbling, bewildering array of input, and Sherlock gives a shocked cry as his hips try to push up and grind down all at once, and in the aftermath of that confused clench he feels the muscles of his abdomen relax in release, feels his Pubococcogeus muscles flex –

“Yes, like that, oh god –” John murmurs, working his finger a bit deeper, “oh god have you never – have you ever –?”

Sherlock makes a high noise, pants twice, strains to stay loose and relaxed, realizes what he’s doing, and then tries to go limp – _success_ : John’s finger slides in all the way. “Easier when it’s me,” he gasps. “Know what to expect.”

John licks a stripe up his cock, and Sherlock quivers at the run of sensation it scatters through his body: his nipples peak, his cock twitches, his lower abdominals clench, causing him to tighten around John’s finger – oh god – and that, that, that repeats everything, nipples to cock to rectum to –

Sherlock can feel his internal walls flutter, gives a hoarse groan as John’s finger slides out, tries to keep breathing as two fingers push in, swells with a strange sense of pride that he didn’t fight John on the entry this time. He tries to keep from grinning at that, can’t, turns his head away – what will John think? – but then John shifts and is kissing him, and the kiss feels different, and Sherlock finally sees that it’s because John is grinning right back at him, even though they’re kissing and he has two fingers up Sherlock’s arse.

“Now – I want – _John_ ,” Sherlock manages, and he feels John’s hesitation, but then he feels his resolution as well, because with one last, stretching twist, John’s fingers are gone, and there are sounds – lubricant and flesh and friction as John prepares himself – but no visuals accompany them because, despite his continued efforts to keep them open and catalogue everything, Sherlock’s eyes are shut. It’s desperately unfair – Sherlock needs the records, because what if John doesn’t like this? What if this is the only time this happens? What if ~~it’s~~ _he’s_ not good enough? What if –

A kiss brings him out of the well of his thoughts, a feather light brush of fingers against his jaw, and he finds he can look up at John. The storm of worry and nerves and care in familiar blue eyes cuts Sherlock’s panic in half, and for the first time he considers that he may not be the only one who’s thought of this moment before now. The thought leaves him breathless as much as the anticipation does.

Sherlock meets John’s gaze and nods, serious and still and in some sort of placid trance, his body boneless, pliant, as if it had been waiting for his mind to step aside, to get out of the way of this, this, this –

John shifts his hips, takes hold of himself, and Sherlock bites his lower lip and lets his knees fall wider, and then there’s heat and a dull sort of pressure, hinting at the possibility of bright pain. John’s still-slick hand comes up and strokes Sherlock’s cock, working it back to full hardness, and Sherlock fights not to shift in that grip, tries to keep his hips still even as his muscles contract and flex.

“Easy, _easy_ – oh – oh there, yes,” John breathes, and Sherlock feels his mouth fall open, slack at the feeling of being breached, but at the same moment it seems to be happening distantly, to his transport and not to him, and his eyes can rove over John’s face, see the tension flow through his shoulders and arms and spine and thighs, see it shudder through him in waves, waves that break at their joining, and Sherlock finds he’s quivering as well, helpless to fight the high sounds that escape his throat in snips and snatches, little sips of sound.

John pulls back an inch, moves forward two, curses and pinches his lips, and both hands come up to grip Sherlock by the hips, pushing pale ovals into the blush of arousal that seems to have claimed every inch of his skin. At last John is pressed flush against Sherlock, seated fully, and both of them are breathing harsh, ragged breaths.

“Oh my god, Sherlock, you feel – oh god – _amazing –_ ”

Sherlock doesn’t know what he expects John to say, but, ‘ _amazing_ ,’ is most certainly not it. “I - ?” he blurts, then stumbles, stops, and tries to breathe around the tightness in his throat. He hadn’t planned for this – prepared or imagined for this to happen. What does one say when complimented on the feel of the inside of their arse? What would John want to hear? “Thank you?” he tries, and it sounds vulnerable and bewildered and unbearably accurate to his current state.

“Oh my god,” John laughs, and it’s a breathless sort of laugh, the kind they’ve shared before, the kind he learned from John. “Oh god. You’re welcome,” he cheeks at him.

Sherlock tries a grin, and when it sticks he says as he shifts his hips, just a little: “You feel – likewise. Good. Um.” He’d somehow imagined far less talk and far more everything- _anything_ -else. Somehow, instead of frantic friction and animalistic orgasm-chasing, there’s this: laughter and eye contact and talking. Kisses and finger touches.

John quirks an eyebrow. “Hopefully I can do better than _that_ ,” he says, and he sounds equal parts confident and nervous, his words’ strut undercut by the question in his eyes and the careful press of his skin against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock exhales as John pushes slowly closer, and instead of waiting for John to come to him, lifts up to take the kiss on offer, in exchange for a gasp and a shared moan, because _oh – there’s_ the friction and the baser want.

“Sherlock –” John says, and his voice quakes with strain, and his face is very close, his breath breaking upon Sherlock’s cheeks and wet lips.

“John – yes.” Sherlock tries to move his hips, and it’s clumsy, but oh god how he wants this, this, John, John here and now and inside him – “ _Please_!”

John tangles his right hand with Sherlock’s left, takes hold of Sherlock’s waist with his left, and then he’s moving – slowly to start, pulling back and pushing forward, and Sherlock breathes and breathes around the hazy pleasure/pain of the friction, and John must feel the drag, because he slows, pulls out, fiddles with the lubricant, and then his back, sliding ( _much_ more) slickly into Sherlock, who can only grunt at John’s sudden and easy return. “Oh _god_ ,” he manages, and then his neck arches back as John sets a rhythm, insistent, hypnotic, his movements smooth and even.

“There, there, oh,” John groans, and Sherlock watches as John’s hands grip and adjust his hips, as John’s own hips pump into him, and he can feel each new angle register slightly brighter, incrementally better until –

“ _Unnh--John!_ ”

“Oh god, there, _yes_ ,” John hisses. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he says, keeping Sherlock tilted so that spot inside him flares like a lighthouse with each of John’s thrusts.

Sherlock cries out, a keening moan segmented into tight grunts as John picks up the pace. “John, oh god John, oh –” his words desert him, all he can find is John’s name. John’s cock pushes into him, again, again, his hands push his knees up, guide his legs to lock around John’s waist, John’s chest drips sweat onto him from above, and John’s mouth is a temptation of gasps, if only Sherlock could command his own trembling body to something besides boneless acquiescence –

But he can’t, and he doesn’t really want to. No, what he wants is to grip John tight against him, twine him into place with arms and legs, what he wants is this moment’s eternal lingering, what he wants is this, just this, John pressed against him and panting, because while the pleasure is electric and addictive, it’s John he craves.

Sherlock is suddenly and acutely aware that he cannot control how this goes, how this – encounter? – ends – and end it must – and what then?

John must catch the thinking sickness from him, because he slows his movements, grinds his hips into Sherlock’s in a dance of aching pleasure. “Oh god,” he breathes. “I should have – d’you think – if we’d – sooner?” John huffs out between breaths, and Sherlock can’t hear this, not now, he can’t. It’s too close to unvoiced, unthought, unwished wants, and he can’t rewrite this, John’s voice spilling real and immutable into the air between them, but Sherlock can keep him from saying anything else: he pushes up for a kiss, receives it, can barely contain the lightning jump of joy and pain at the readily given press of lips and slick of tongue.

John breaks away, eyes closed, face flushed and somehow fierce even in an act so soft as caring. “Sherlock – oh god, I wish –”

Sherlock shakes his head, does what he can to smother the choked sound trying to escape his throat, reaches up and does what he can to stop the words in John’s mouth with his once more, because if he hears much more he’ll be shaken, rattled to pieces by those words in that voice, and he can’t yet, he can’t.

If this is the one chance he gets, the only time, moments caught and pressed between their different skins, then Sherlock wants something he can keep, can remember later, when he doesn’t have this anymore.

The kiss between them turns frantic, frenzied, and John’s hips stutter back into a taking rhythm. With John pressed so close, each thrust now also presses Sherlock’s cock against John’s lower abdomen. The mix of sweat, lubricant, pre-ejaculate keeps the friction from becoming chafing, and Sherlock can feel each movement John makes ring throughout his body like a tolling bell, a brightness rising, disparate frequencies synchronizing.

Sherlock tries, tries, clutches, clings to the moment, but then it breaks over him and into him and he’s coming, muscles contracting, pelvis jerking, back arching, heart rate spiking, and his breath – his breath – his voice – he’s lost all control –

“Oh god, oh god, Sherlock,” John huffs, pushing into him still and still and still, even as Sherlock’s limbs thrash then freeze in the grips of pleasure, “Oh god Sherlock,” John groans, and then he’s coming too, two rough thrusts and then a shivering stillness as he spills and spends himself, hot and slick and inside Sherlock.

“John, John, John,” Sherlock can’t stop saying John’s name, won’t stop saying it, like this, now, in case he doesn’t get to say it like this again. If this is the only time, then so be it, but he’ll say his fill and never dilute this memory with whispers to empty rooms.

The intensity of release fades, like it always does, and Sherlock can breathe and think again. He stops breathing John’s name.

There’s dampness threatening at the corners of Sherlock’s eyes, so he tilts his chin up and blinks, panting shallowly, his body throbbing with use, thrumming with deep pangs of pleasure, even as he realizes, wonderingly, _Our orgasms occurred less than twenty seconds apart._

The next thought is: _That is… unexpected_ – and problematic. Sherlock had expected to come much earlier than John, to have time to put his pleasure aside and focus on John’s, to make sure the remnants of intercourse were as satisfying for John as possible with Sherlock’s limited experience. But like this – John had pushed Sherlock ahead of him, then followed immediately, and Sherlock hadn’t done much more than lay there and receive stimulus and –

John kisses him, breathless, and his mouth is cool from his panting. He’s still inside Sherlock, and for a moment Sherlock thinks maybe John’s refractory period will allow for a quick turnaround, and that maybe he’ll have his chance after all – but then John is twisting his hips gingerly, and he slips out, soft and spent. _That’s that, then,_ Sherlock thinks. He feels an odd rush of sensation in his throat and the delicate tissues of his lower jaw, as if he’d swallowed some implausibly diluted mixture of bitter electricity.

Just as Sherlock expected, however, he is not about to fall asleep (no matter how much he wishes he could), and so he is wide awake as John turns to him, still mostly above him. _Here it comes_ , Sherlock thinks. He takes a steadying breath, and is momentarily proud that it’s more-or-less even on the way in.

“Alright?” John asks, and there’s a bit of a grin, and it takes an age for Sherlock to recognize it as such. “Hey – everything ok?” Concern layered over the grin – how does John _do_ that –

Sherlock’s breath is a lot less even on the exhale.

“Hey,” John repeats softly, and god, Sherlock can’t – he can’t –

“You’re asking me?” he asks, trying for dispassionate and missing by a mile. “You tell me.” He runs his hands over his face, into his fringe, then down again, mostly as an excuse to not have his eyes open right now. “Please.”

“Sherlock – what –” John comes into view – he’s peeling Sherlock’s hands from his face. “What are you on about? Please tell me what’s going on.”

“We’ve just had sex, John.” What a strange thing to say. It’s obvious, it’s evident, it’s superfluous – and yet. “ _We’ve_ just had _sex_.”

“I am aware,” John says, and his expression is a study in concerned good humour.

Sherlock thinks, _I should have rehearsed this portion, too_ , _I should have prepared for an eventuality in which John Watson_ yet again _manages to fall outside all expected behavioral patterns._ He says: “You are perplexing.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” John huffs, the laugh half-restrained. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “No.”

“Alright then,” John says with a firm half-nod. “Mind if I kip here?”

Sherlock’s jaw drops open, and he’s quick to turn the movement into a question: “You – you’re – just like this?”

John lifts an eyebrow and Sherlock blushes which is _madness._ They just fucked and now he blushes because John expects to sleep next to him, because John isn’t running off – to the loo or his room or the next country over –

“Problem?” John asks. “You want me to clean up first – or?”

“No,” Sherlock answers too quickly, catches himself, swallows, and then says, “No, that won’t be necessary.”

“Alright then,” John says again with a widening grin. “Can I kiss you?”

Sherlock nods, baffled, and John inches forward slowly, eyes tracking over Sherlock’s features but never really straying far from his eyes. The kiss is almost chaste, except for the end where Sherlock’s mouth opens a little, and John takes his lower lip between his teeth and gives it a slow tug. Sherlock shivers.

“Budge up,” John says, voice a touch huskier than before. “Come on, get in with me,” he says as he clambers under the rumpled sheets. His jeans fall to the ground with a clatter and soft _thumph_ of belt and denim.

Sherlock finds himself arranged on his side facing John, covers up to his shoulders. He rarely sleeps covered, opens his mouth to say so, then shuts it instead.

John is watching him. After a spell he asks, “Are you always this quiet after sex?”

 _ ~~No. Yes.~~ I don’t know_ , Sherlock thinks. A long minute ticks by, and then another. “Possibly.”

John takes Sherlock’s hand and just holds it for a moment. “This okay?”

Sherlock dips his head forward minutely, but John sees and understands: he squeezes Sherlock’s fingers briefly.

“I know you said you don’t want to talk – do you mind if I do?”

Sherlock looks at John. This is his room, his bed, and apparently this is where this conversation is going to happen. John is going to explain Why Not to him, and Sherlock will never lie here again without feeling the images of it press against his eyes, the sounds of it slithering against his tempanic membrane, the memory coiling into and around his throat.

Long moments pass before John takes a deep breath and begins:

“I get the feeling – oh damn, Sherlock, please breathe you are making me nervous.”

Sherlock tilts his head back to clear his airways, opens his mouth, and tries. After a moment of strange struggle, his throat working against him, he manages a gasp, and then another, and after a few more he focuses on breathing like a normal person and lets his eyes fall shut under cover of recovering his breath. It takes longer than he’d like. “I…am not sure…what just happened,” he confesses at last, and it costs him several more deep breaths that feel futile at best.

“Well, you definitely forgot to breathe,” John says bluntly. “Could be a panic attack, albeit minor.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I meant – the – the sex thing.” He shivers, can’t even find it in himself to hate the uncertainty and awkwardness of his words. His pulse hammers high and hard in his head, in his throat.

“I thought I was being obvious.” John’s hands are warm on his neck and arm, the thumbs smoothing circles into his skin. “It has to be obvious now, Sherlock. You have to know.”

“Do I?” Sherlock feels the combative words slip free, and the tone is comforting in its familiarity, even if it feels alien to the situation.

“It’s you,” John says at last. “It’s….you’re…”

Sherlock wonders what options John is considering and discarding, which words he wants to keep, which are scratched out before they ever reach his tongue.

He won’t let himself think the words.

He won’t let himself think those words.

“Sherlock, I love you.”

With so much focus diverted towards controlling his own thoughts, it takes a moment for Sherlock to hear, to process. Another moment later he squeezes his eyes shut. “You can’t just say that,” Sherlock says softly, fiercely. “You can’t just _say_ that.”

“I know,” John answers, just as softly. “I’m not just saying it.” His hands are warm where they seek to touch and comfort, leave coolness where they hesitate to land. “Sherlock –”

Sherlock’s body is patterned with gooseflesh and shivers. It feels like he’s coming down with the fever: body sore, eyes aching, throat tight, mouth dry. He doesn’t quite realize he’s curling closer to John until John’s arms close around him, embracing him.

John presses kisses and words into his hair, and Sherlock can hear them as the buzzing clears from his ears, as the grey clears from his eyes, and John is just saying his name again, and again, interspersed with ‘please’ and ‘I’m so sorry.’

“Why are you apologizing?” Sherlock wants to know. His words are slow, almost slurred, sloppy and he wonders how long he’s been lying still in John arms. He should have been measuring the seconds, keeping record.

“I should have told you ages ago. That I loved you. Right when it first happened – and I didn’t. I was such an idiot.”

Sherlock swallows until his throat will admit air and sound. “You mean it,” he manages. “You mean this. You –”

John hugs him closer. “Yeah.” He sounds miserable.

“You sound miserable.” _Just say it_ , Sherlock thinks at himself. _Just say it. Say it._

 _Just say it_ – but he can’t.

John shrugs, just holds him tighter, and somehow, having the air crushed from his lungs loosens some words for him:

“Me, too.” It’s a whisper, but he knows John hears because John stills his breathing, waiting – waiting? – _oh_ – and he wants desperately to say the words, _those words_ , “John, I –” to peel them from his throat and tongue where they cling, “I –” choking him with panic, but he can’t, so he says, “Me, too,” again and hopes.

The way John’s next breath is rather shaky tells Sherlock his attempt at communicating might have been successful, because it seems John is overcome; he tilts his head away from Sherlock’s, which won’t do, because Sherlock means to hunt down his mouth and taste this moment, and he squirms and curls around John until their lips slot together, and their mouths are almost acidic with emotion, the tang of what was just said coating their tongues and lips and jaws and throats and eyes and –

“You’re not leaving, then?” Sherlock finds words enough to ask.

John shakes his head. “You?”

“Don’t be preposterous,” Sherlock chokes out, and then they’re kissing again, frantic, trying to stay ahead of the crush of the moment, and mostly succeeding. The wetness on their cheeks could just as easily be from kissing.

It doesn’t get much further than a sort of intimate rocking, just moving together as their mouths fit against one another again and again, infinite iterations of interlocking, but it feels like a balm, like the ocean lapping away at a tideline until something calmer remains.

They are both drained, and that fact is written in their weak hands and heavy leaning against each other, and finally they sink down beside each other, breathing and watching and breathing, breathing, breathing.

 

Sherlock wakes to find John watching him. _Unexpected_ , but this time it’s not terrifying.

John sees he is awake and trails his fingers up the thin skin of Sherlock’s arms, following what must have been the path his eyes had been taking while Sherlock slept. The two inch scar from a suspect’s last-ditch attempt at avoiding arrest doesn’t quite keep John’s eyes from finding the faded pocks from another life. He thumbs over them.

“A solution for boredom,” Sherlock murmurs. He doesn’t explain that it was long ago, because he knows the scars do that for him. _It’s nothing to worry about_ , _not anymore,_ the scars say.

John’s thumbs tighten where they press, and his jaw clenches, and it seems he disagrees, but all he says is: “I wish I’d met you sooner.” _You must have been so lonely_ , John’s voice echoes in his memories, and it wasn’t John, not really, but it seems the scripting was spot on. “Might not have run off to get shot at, if I had,” John says, and there’s that self-deprecating twist to his mouth and his voice and his words, but his eyes hollow out the would-be humour.

“Thinking about what could have been is an inelegant form of self-torture,” Sherlock says, then.

John glances up at him. “How long have you been telling yourself that?”

“Three years, at least.” Sherlock tries for a smile, but it only shifts half his mouth, and one shoulder shrugs, and this is so much harder than he expected, and also easier, because John just lies beside him and breathes and runs his fingers along his arm.

“God, I thought…” John shakes his head slightly. “I really thought you knew – or noticed – or whatever. On some level.”

“I…hoped. When I let myself. And I dreamt.” Sherlock wants to look away, but his eyes are caught up in John’s. The dim glow of morning seems magnified in his sea blue eyes. “I thought of you often. Endlessly,” he amends, because it’s true. An exercise in not thinking about something is the same as thinking about it. “I’m not sure I actually thought you – this – would happen.” He swallows. “Reciprocation.” He wonders if John will hear what he means, if he will point out Sherlock’s use of all-encompassing terms like ‘sentiment’ and ‘reciprocation’ where society would demand much more specific endearments and admissions. Sherlock’s lips attempt a smile, and it feels odd and unsure and achingly hopeful.

John’s lips twitch into a mirror copy. “That’s ‘cause you’re an idiot,” he says, and the small smile slides sideways into a bit of a grin.

Sherlock feels his mouth answer in kind, relaxing away from uncertainty. Tension unspools from his muscles, and he feels his eyes flutter closed, open again, then closed again. He tightens his grip where his hands have taken hold: John’s waist, John’s shoulder. There’s a heaviness in Sherlock’s bones, muscles, blood, leaden weights courtesy of the night, the revelation, the panic, the broken slumber: Sherlock knows he’ll sleep again, and he hates it. He forces his eyes open one last time. “Stay,” he says, although it’s really a request, a plea, even if it emerges as a command.

John is quiet for a moment. “This isn’t a dream, Sherlock.”

“Prove it,” Sherlock whispers. “Be here when I wake up.”

“I’ve already done it once,” John shams at considering the request, but he shuffles closer and says, “I’m sure I can manage it again.” He presses his lips against Sherlock’s. “Although, I think maybe once or even twice won’t cut it?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“Fine. Good,” John murmurs. He moves until he’s pressed against Sherlock, until his arms are swaddling Sherlock, every breath breaking softly over his shoulder, his neck, his curls. “I’ll just keep being here when you wake up, then. Until you have all the proof you need.”


End file.
